The wooden steps creaked under my feet as I walked from the patio to the sand, my beer in hand, back to my lounge chair, the sweltering summer sun beating down on me. My name is Michael Burton, and I work as a professional bodyguard. I joined the Army at the age of 18 and served for three years before being dishonorably discharged – after my unit was ambushed due to my own carelessness.
I'm currently between contracts, so I'm relaxing in the Florida Keys. When I saw three guys walking across the beach near the water, I knew my day was going to take a turn for the worse. I'd noticed them earlier as I walked up to the bar: a short, pudgy-looking man flanked by two taller WWE rejects. None of them were dressed for the beach. They appeared vaguely familiar, but I couldn't place them; I ignored them as I walked up to my chair.
I barely had a chance to sit down before they turned and approached me. "Can I help you, gentlemen?" I asked, looking at them with interest.
"Michael Burton?" said the chunkier of the three men.
"I better be or else I'm wearing someone else's underwear." Sipping my drink, I said, "Who's asking?"
“I’m Carlos Sanchez; and these are my associates, Enrique and Manuel.” Turning serious, Carlos said, “We work for Hector Cordoba.”
I felt my heart skip a beat. That was a name I had hoped to never hear again. Before I could even move, the two big guys were on top of me and threw a heavy bag over my head.
***************************
I must have been knocked out after the bag was placed on my head, because I only had vague memories of being placed in the back of some vehicle. As the bag was removed, I let out a painful wail, the sudden, intense light overwhelming my eyes. It took a moment for the fog to lift, but then I found myself strapped to a chair in the middle of a small office.
I could see a blurry figure in front of me. "Hello Michael, it's been a long time."
My vision cleared just enough for me to recognize the figure as Hector Cordoba.
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